


forever a lost boy with bony knees

by endofadream



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Rating will change, Tattoo artist Natasha Romanov, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, intimacy issues, the pop-punk AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: “Didn’t know you were in the band,” Bucky says lightly, crossing his arms over his chest.“I’m friends with the band,” Steve replies, modest. Even reaches up to rub his hand over the back of his head, sending his blue hair tumbling into his equally-as-blue-what-the-fuckeyes. “I design their stuff.”





	forever a lost boy with bony knees

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely self-indulgent and an excuse to write about all the shows that i go to. if you've never been to a pop-punk concert, go. especially if you live in the midwest. your life will change.

Bucky lives for the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit venues. The hoppy scent of cheap beer, the sickly sweet scent of skunk weed. The smell of sweat from hundreds of bodies pushed too close. The energy that’s so powerful you can almost feel it grabbing onto you. It’s the closest he’s got to home, as sad as that sounds. But when you’ve gone through what he has you try to find the light anywhere. And tonight, “anywhere” is a cramped, dingy venue in the heart of Brooklyn, stuffed to the brim with concertgoers of various ages.

The acoustics in this place are terrible, the speakers too loud so that the words are barely audible over the thump of the bass. It doesn’t really matter, though, because Bucky doesn’t know these bands. He’d come because he needed to get out of his head for a little bit, quiet the persistent, racing thoughts and just _be_ , if only for a few hours.

People press against him from all sides: hot, sweaty, breathless with the force that only a live performance is capable of. Elbows and hands are everywhere. The crowd surges and ebbs like the tide, carrying Bucky’s body along with it on the beer-sticky floor.

Occasionally his anxiety reminds him of its presence with uncomfortable prickles down the back of his neck and in his stomach, but it’s gotten better. Most shows he can power through it; some, especially if the crowd is bad, have him leaving on the verge of a panic attack. It’s been happening less and less, though, which Bucky is grateful about. No one likes being _that person_.

It’s easy to forget the crush of people on all sides of him when the music is loud enough to fuzz in his ears. The music itself is what moves him in an unconscious sway-and-bob, has him pumping his fist along with the crowd, has him closing his eyes and tipping his head back and feeling that warm glow spread from his chest and emanate to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Somewhere behind him a circle pit opens up with a few indistinct shouts and rough jostling of bodies. Bucky rolls his eyes and does his best to move as far away as he can to avoid the resulting body slams that inevitably come along with it. There are a lot of things he enjoys about pop punk concerts, but a swarming mess of shoving disguised as dancing is not one of them.

The song ends and another one starts up, lively and guitar-heavy, the kind that makes you immediately want to move. This is it. _This_ is what these kinds of concerts are all about. You don’t have to know anything but the scene. The singer flits from one end of the small stage to the other, energy impressive for such a small area. Bucky wonders if these guys have a Spotify and makes a mental note to find out which band it is after the show.

Through pure instinct built from experience, the second people’s heads start turning Bucky already knows that there’s a body being passed up towards the stage. The girl next to him is a good foot shorter; though she can clearly hold her own Bucky still makes a note to take the brunt of the person behind them so she doesn’t get kicked.

Bucky moves on auto, the way he does every time a crowdsurfer heads his way: he reaches up, his hand accidentally coming into contact with a—

Well. Fuck, that is the most toned ass that Bucky has ever grabbed. Quickly he snatches his hand away and grabs for the guy's thigh instead, which is still impossibly toned. He’d feel a little worse for accidentally groping the huge dude making his way towards the barricade, but it’s the pit and it’s hardly a surprise. Everyone knows the ramifications.

Bucky catches a shock of bright blue hair and impossibly broad shoulders as the guy lands on the stage, high-fiving the singer before he pumps his fist and bounds off stage right and into the midst of the pit once again. Bucky loses sight of him quickly among the writhing mass of bodies, and forgets about him not long after when the next song begins with a heavy drop and the middle of the crowd swells towards the raw-throated scream the singer lets out.

For the rest of the concert Bucky is lost in the music and the beat pumping from the soles of his shoes all the way to his chest. The band is local, a little green but still with the undeniable sprouts of talent that just need to be pruned and watered, and he gets into it just like everyone else. Christ, it’s so good to _let go_ sometimes and forget about anything besides the sticking heat and the jab of wayward elbows and how fucking good music makes him feel even when the rest of his life is rocking unsteadily.

Bucky stays behind once the set is over and the crowd begins dispersing. He can handle the sardine-tin closeness during a show, but after is a different story. Already he begins to grow jittery, fidgeting with his hair as people crush towards the only exit near the stage, tucking it behind his ears before messing it up and letting it fall into his eyes. Wash, rinse, repeat. There’s no way he’s going to even attempt to leave right now, so he might as well make use of his time.

It’s frustrating, dealing with the nerves, the tightness in his chest. How he can’t stop himself from scoping out every exit whenever he goes into a building, even as the rational part of himself is telling him that it’s fine. It’s worse whenever Bucky remembers who he was before and how unafraid of everything he used to be. On the bad days it’s enough to keep him in bed with the most melancholy playlists that he has.

He busies himself with checking his phone to see if Nat has texted him, then checks his email, then his social media when nothing appears there. When he looks up his gaze wanders to the bar towards the back of the venue, naturally being drawn to the small pop-up shop for the bands’ merchandise. He idly scans the selection, focusing on a fanny pack that catches his eye and a shirt in a muted mauve with a sewn-on decal.

And then, as he turns his head towards the corner of the table, Bucky sees him.

Crowdsurfer Guy is _huge_ , both in height and mass. He’s in a worn, tight-fitting black blink-182 shirt that looks like it’s from the _Dude Ranch_ era. His jeans aren’t the skinniest Bucky has seen (he did live through 2007, after all), but they’re not exactly relaxed either. It draws his gaze almost immediately to Crowdsurfer Guy’s massive thighs and kickstarts his brain into imagining _exactly_ what they’re capable of.

Bucky curses his self-imposed celibacy as his face flushes. With another glance towards the exit he walks forward, avoiding the empty plastic beer cups scattered everywhere as well as his own internal monologue about how dumb of an idea it is to even be doing this in the first place.

As he walks he tries to think of something to say, some clever opening line to gauge Crowdsurfer Guy’s sexuality and interestedness, as well as assuage his insecurities and prove—to who? Himself?—that he’s still the same as he was. But he comes up frustratingly blank; Bucky hasn’t tried to pick anyone up since before, and PTSD doesn’t exactly help with that particular stress.

Christ, and it doesn’t help that, the closer Bucky gets, the more gorgeous Crowdsurfer Guy becomes. Aside from his muscles that make Bucky weak at the knees he’s got cheekbones to die for and lips that Bucky wants to kiss for fucking days. He’s handsome in a wholesome, all-American way that makes Bucky wonder if Crowdsurfer Guy’s favorite dessert is apple pie. Hell, baseball is probably his favorite sport.

No witty openers come to him by the time he stops in front of the fold-out table where Crowdsurfer Guy is now scrolling through his phone, so he settles with, “I saw you crowdsurfing earlier” and immediately grimaces at how stiff it sounds. Bucky may be a wreck of insecurities, but even he knows he’s better than this. 

Crowdsurfer Guy looks up, then pockets his phone with a little quirk of a grin that accentuates the full curve of his lower lip. “Yeah? That song is a fucking jam, man. I get pumped every time I hear it. Clint’s a fucking genius with melodies.”

Bucky has no idea which one of them was Clint. He also has no idea how this beefy, hot-as-shit guy is standing alone at this table like he runs the place. So he nods, coolly. Maybe Beefcake is just here to meet the band. Maybe he wants to buy something. Hell, maybe he’s waiting for a friend. But Bucky has never known when or where to shut up and he can’t stop his mouth from opening.

“Didn’t know you were in the band,” he says lightly, crossing his arms over his chest. Mentally he’s punching his own face repeatedly. _That’s_ the best he could come up with? This is why you’re single, Barnes. Becca would be laughing her ass off if she were here right now.

“I’m friends with the band,” Crowdsurfer Guy replies, modest. Even reaches up to rub his hand over the back of his head, sending his blue hair tumbling into his equally-as-blue-what-the- _fuck_ eyes. “I design their stuff.”

Bucky blinks. _Oh_. He looks over to the small display of t-shirts and hoodies and nods. “It’s good,” he says, and it is. It’s abstract and bold, filled with bright colors and patterns. This guy has definite talent that goes way deeper than the usual fare of pop punk designs.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” Crowdsurfer Guy—Steve—says, extending his hand.

Bucky takes it. “Bucky.”

Steve’s eyes crinkle with a grin. “Bucky?”

“My first name is James, middle is Buchanan,” Bucky explains. “I thought that James was too mainstream when I was in first grade and decided to go by Bucky. Somehow it actually stuck.”

Steve laughs, and oh god. Oh god, Bucky is _such_ a goner. It makes him tingle all the way down to the soles of his feet. Makes him feel _special_. Bucky closes his eyes for a long moment. Get a goddamn grip, Barnes, it’s just a fucking laugh. Steve is just another guy at another concert.

“How precocious,” says Steve without a hint of sarcasm. His gaze travels head-to-toe and he adds, “Looks like you’re a hipster through and through.”

“Don’t let the bun fool you,” replies Bucky, impressed with his outward calm when inside he’s scrambling and trying to figure out if Steve was checking him out or checking him _out_. “I don’t eat organic and I actually hate craft beer.”

“Do you still like record players versus CD players?”

“Oh hell yeah. Nothing beats a good vinyl.”

Steve grins again. “Then you might be a hipster.”

This time it’s Bucky who laughs. “Shut the fuck up, man. Everything sounds better in 45.”

“Not disputing that.” Steve holds his palms out, giving Bucky a quick glance at the tattoos on the insides of his biceps that snake towards the backs of his arms. They’re simple and bold, the kind of neo-traditional like his T-shirt designs, but Bucky can’t quite make out what they are. He tugs at the long sleeves of his own pullover even though his left arm is fully covered.

It’s not that Bucky isn’t proud of his ink. He _is_. After finally landing stateside he’d painstakingly looked up every artist in Brooklyn that he could. It was pure luck that he found Natalia Romanova’s work, and looking through her portfolio showed that she also knew a thing or two about covering up scars. It’s what sealed the deal and had him calling her up for a consultation.

There’s always been a pull towards body art in him, even as a child. It is, essentially, the ultimate form of commitment: screw relationships, screw marriage. Letting a needle slip under your skin is better than any of that.

What Nat gave him is beautiful and makes it easier to look at his left arm on a daily basis. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop Bucky from hating it being exposed in tight crowds and hating the stares that people still give it. Ink can only do so much on scar tissue, especially to the extent that Bucky has, and people, in general, are nosy assholes.

It’s even luckier that Nat has a charitable streak (not that she’d ever admit that) and a soft spot for pathetic veterans. It’s how they became friends and then roommates and how Bucky now has a nice, steady gig at the front desk of Nat’s shop, The Black Widow. Not like he’d ever complain: the two brothers, Loki and Thor, that work alongside Nat are nice. The clientele are nice and the regulars always greet Bucky with a smile and ask how he’s doing in non-invasive and patronizing ways. Plus free tattoos? Hell yeah.

The band members have begun to amble over from a door off to the far side of the room, sweat-drenched and exuberant. Steve greets them when they stop at the table, then turns to Bucky. He claps his hand on the shoulder of a shorter blond with a forearm tattoo of a hawk. “This is Clint.”

“Ah,” says Bucky, “the genius melodies guy.”

“Is Steve starting with that shit again?” Clint turns and punches Steve in the shoulder.

Steve rubs it and says, “Look, I’m just telling the truth. Take a goddamn compliment, Barton.”

“They were pretty good,” Bucky adds. “Like, from a total non-biased outsider’s opinion. You also put on a helluva show.”

“Where the hell did you drag this one in from, Rogers? I like him,” Clint says. He grins brightly. “Is he another one of your boytoys?”

Steve turns a bright shade of red so quickly that Bucky didn’t think it was possible. He clears his throat and wills his own face not to flush. Well, that answers the question of Steve’s sexuality. Definitely into men. That’s good. On the other hand, his promiscuity.

Not that Bucky has a problem with it. He'd certainly fooled around enough in his late teens and early twenties to be anything other than a hypocrite to judge someone’s carnal enjoyment. Emotionless, anonymous sex is great. Fantastic. He just…doesn’t do that anymore. Specifically, sleep with people in general. Call him old-fashioned, but Bucky craves that connection that comes with sex with someone you love. Maybe it’s the newfound vulnerability that comes with a permanent injury that borders on a disability. Maybe it’s the fucked-up way his mind works now after seeing so many of his friends die on the front line.

“Clint,” Steve all but whines.

Clint shrugs and flashes Bucky a wide grin, gently nudging his shoulder. It’s the left one, and Bucky winces and tries to hide it. “Don’t let his shyness fool you. I’ve heard a thing or two.”

The look of horror on Steve’s face is so comical that Bucky can’t help but laugh, saying, “I’ve never seen a dude as big as you look as sheepish as you do right now.”

He takes in a quick breath, looks Steve dead in the eyes, and adds, “I hope these ‘things’ are as good as I’m imagining.”

His jaw snaps shut. His eyes widen.

_Oh god, Barnes, what the fuck are you_ doing _, you don’t even_ flirt _anymore._

Clint and the rest of his bandmates let out a series of _ooh_ s. Bucky feels a little like his body as short-circuited and his mouth has taken over uninvited. But he just can’t stop thinking about Steve’s ass, and Steve’s eyes, and Steve’s fucking mouth on his—

Wow. He really needs to get laid.

“Steve,” Clint says, staring very deliberately at Steve’s red face, “if you aren’t going home with this one then I am.”

“Oh, god,” Steve says. His blue eyes are huge and apologetic when he turns to look at Bucky, hands clasped together under his chin in a prayer-like motion. “Please ignore them. I don’t just… _sleep_ with every cute guy I meet at a show.”

“Your dick would fall off if you did,” cuts in Clint. Steve smacks him. Bucky holds in a hysterical giggle that still manages to escape through his teeth.

“Sex is fine,” Bucky says, because it is. The last thing he needs is Steve thinking that he’s some sort of prude. Would he think that? Bucky has no idea; he just met the guy. Christ, he just met the guy and already he’s trying to impress him. What is it about male animals and their need to constantly prove themselves?

Steve looks at him in a way that has Bucky convinced he isn’t buying a thing, even as he nods and smiles. Bucky knows he has a tendency to catastrophize but it seems incredibly justified in this case. Hot guy plus loose morals plus Bucky plus his intimacy issues equals a bad time all around. But. Bucky does miss giving head. And Steve looks like he could pull Bucky’s hair just the way he likes.

Bucky shakes his head. Enough of that.

The thing about self-imposed celibacy is that there are a lot of unwanted thoughts at unwanted times. His libido is fine: his mental health isn’t. Strangely, though, the more he talks to Steve the more relaxed he becomes. Various concertgoers have ambled over to talk to Clint and the rest of the band, and Bucky watches as Steve handles the transactions with a bright grin and a genuine gratitude.

Bucky checks his phone when the band disappears, Clint giving him a wink that makes his face flush anew, and sees that it’s later than he’d thought. He told Nat he’d be home in time for their nightly ritual viewing of _Bob’s Burgers_ and he’d rather not face her wrath. Also, exhaustion is beginning to steal over him in that slow, inexorable way that it has, and he's not sure how much longer he can handle being in public.

Steve, somehow, is one step ahead of him. As Bucky turns, Steve is saying, “So, uh. I understand if you don’t, after Clint being an asshole and everything, but. Um.” He scratches the back of his neck again, and Bucky sees that Steve has several detailed blackwork roses there. When Steve bites his lip Bucky warms, gut tingling. “Wanna exchange numbers? Just, um. Since we’ll probably be going to the same shows,” Steve eventually finishes. It’s clearly a deflection, because Steve’s fair complexion sells him out, but it’s cute. Bucky nods.

“Yeah, totally.”

Bucky bites his own lip and ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. Steve hands him his phone and Bucky types in his information. Their fingers brush when Bucky hands it back, and he thinks he understands those stupid romance movies now when they talk about that little electric zip that fires throughout your entire body.

Steve smiles brightly at Bucky in a way that reminds him of a Golden Retriever. Though he’s more of a cat person, Bucky finds it incredibly endearing.

The late-September air carries a threat of chill on the breeze when Bucky steps outside. His and Nat’s apartment is only a ten-minute walk away and Bucky inhales deeply, breathing in city smog and trash and, faintly, the salt scent of the ocean. In his pocket his phone buzzes.

_(_ **_From: +17185964487_ ** _) So… are you going to Knuckle Puck next weekend?_

_(_ **_From: +17185964487_ ** _) This is Steve btw_

Bucky laughs softly to himself as he types out his answer, then saves Steve to his contacts.

_(_ **_To: steve w/the great ass_ ** _) you know it._

**Author's Note:**

> i love reviews and i love talking to you!! tumblr is [here](https://endofadream.tumblr.com/)!


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